Sometimes Nothing
by Ponderosa
Summary: JeanxOminae. (Complete) Yaoi. Jean exhibits some unusual tenderness during some 'tension relief' on an airplane. Set not long after the movie ends.


  
  
Title: Sometimes Nothing   
Author: Ponderosa (ponderosa@dragonworld.com)   
Pairing: JeanxOminae 

Archived at: http://www.dragonworld.com/ponderosa   
Warning: **[R]** Yaoi. Lemon. Some angst.   
Spoilers: Minor ones for the movie. 

Disclaimer: Characters belong to their respective copyright owners, like Hiroshi Takashige, Ryouji Minagawa, and Bandai. Plot, if you can call it that, belongs to me. 

Notes: Repost. ^^; Thank you everyone who gave such nice reviews the first time around. ^__^ This fic has an accompanying illustration at my site, link is above and in my profile. Thanks for reading! 

  
  
  
-=*=-  
  
  


**Sometimes Nothing**  
  
  
  
"Ominae." 

I snap out of my reverie instantly. Hearing your voice sounds surreal. It seems loud and intrusive. All I've been listening to for the past two hours is the hushed drone of the engines and the jumbled mess of my own thoughts. 

"How's your arm?" you ask. 

I tear my eyes away from window and smile thinly as you thread your way through the aisle. You flick on one of the reading lights before you swing around to drop down into a seat directly across from me. 

"Just fine," I say. 

"What are you doing back here in the dark, Ominae?" 

"Thinking." 

"About what?" You slide down as far as you can in the cramped seat and stretch your legs out with a sigh. 

I turn back to stare out at the bluish, moonlit clouds that spread out and obscure my view of the ground that passes by so far below. "Nothing." 

"Yeah?" You snort softly, and in the reflection at the corner of the window, I see you prop your arms behind your head. "What a coincidence. I came back here to think about nothing." 

I try to look at the clouds, but all I really do is study your mirrored profile. Your lashes are so dark in their downswept curves; bold compared to the feathered gold that falls across your forehead. I wish your eyes were open. 

I cross my legs, uncomfortable as always when we're alone in quiet times like this. The movement sends a sharp pain up the mending bones of my arm and I hiss softly. With no adrenaline and the painkillers wearing off, it's hard to ignore. 

"I lied," I say, wincing as I flex my fingers. "My arm hurts like hell." 

You chuckle low in your throat and twist your head to catch me watching your reflection. "I lied too," you say. Your accent comes through more than usual and it turns your words into a soft purr. "I was looking for you. I've done that a lot in the past twenty-four hours." 

I look away as I say my thanks. 

You lean across the aisle to reach out and slap my leg. "Can't you look at me when you say that?" 

I make myself repeat the thanks to your face and you smirk. That slight curve of your lips is enough to send my pulse racing. I'm enthralled by your quicksilver eyes and suddenly my mouth is moving and I don't know exactly what the words are that my tongue is forming; they've gone directly from my subconscious into the air and my heart stops when my brain catches up. 

"I meant it," you say. You don't look surprised at my question. 

I'm a fool, I tell myself as my heart clenches in my chest at the knowledge that you care at least a little bit about me. You didn't have to save me. If you thought that leaving me there would give you a better chance of surviving, I'm not sure you would have. One Spriggan down instead of two is always better in the long run. 'Leave no man behind' doesn't always hold true for guys like us. 

I'm a fool, I tell myself again, when I can't escape the steel trap of your eyes. And I discover, when you move without warning to lean across the seats and kiss me roughly, that somehow I don't care that I shouldn't be in love with you. 

"Ominae," you say, when you pull away, still holding my face between your hands. My name sounds different on your lips this time. A little huskier, a little heavier, burdened by something I can't quite fathom. "Yu..." 

I try to swallow, but I can't. My eyes are clenched as tight as my throat, as you whisper my given name again and I feel your callused fingertips working beneath the bottom of my shirt. Things are different this time. Very different. 

And it scares me. 

This is no frenzied mutual jerk-off session or a quick suck and spit blowjob before the adrenaline leaves our systems. This time you're kissing me with subtle twists of tongue and lip, tasting me instead of claiming me and the palm that moves across my chest is deliberate in its path. 

"Jean," I say desperately as I try to understand why you're working so hard to coax ragged groans from my throat. "Jean?" 

"Shut up," you tell me, before you kiss me again to make sure I do. It works. 

No words, only pleading moans rise in my throat. And I don't question when you pull one of my shoes off and drag my pants down. I don't question and I part my thighs willingly, as wide as I can in the confines of the narrow seats, as you search with a saliva-coated finger between my legs. 

You mutter darkly when you realize that there isn't enough space for you to kneel between my legs and instead, you take the seat beside me and pull me into your lap. You ease me down and wrap one arm around my waist as you use the other to point the head of your cock at the entrance of my body. 

Your chest is warm against my back, heartbeat so strong that, despite the fact that mine is roaring in my ears, I'm more aware of the steady rhythm that echoes through your ribs. 

The dull throb of my arm dims, in the wake of the kisses you place at the nape of my neck, and I breathe deeply as I try to relax my body enough to welcome you. I'm not entirely successful, but the minor sting and ache of your cock sliding into me is easily dismissed. 

I feel full... But, beyond that simple pleasure of the flesh is contentment... I'm warm, welcome, and safe in the circle of your arms. 

When you're in me as far as possible with the position we're in, I rock against you as best I can. You bury your nose in my hair and whisper things in French that I can't quite hear. You're moving inside me with slow shallow thrusts as you stroke my thigh with one hand and my cock with the other. 

I'm not expecting it when you press your open mouth against the slope of my neck, and a muffled groan vibrates my shoulder. I gasp, as the sudden rush of your semen pumping into me eliminates a good deal of friction, and you're able to thrust so deep inside me, that I feel about to split in two. 

"Your turn, Ominae," you murmur. You remove your hand from my thigh and take hold of my hip as you grind against me and resume tugging my cock. 

I lean back against you fully, curving so that your chin rests on my shoulder and I can smell the shampoo lingering in your hair. It takes only moments for me to reach the point where I can't stave off the blissful peak of orgasm. You groan when you see the first stream of white arc up to land against my chest and I shudder as pleasure courses through my body. 

We stay joined together for a long time, until finally, you buck your hips and tell me that I'm making your leg fall asleep. 

I wonder, as I stand shakily, if things will be different from now on. Already, I feel as if you've forgotten that you called me by my first name. I was scared earlier and that same fear is now joined by uncertainty. 

"Sometimes," you say, as you drag your pants back up. "It's good to think about nothing at all." 

I watch you disappear down the aisle towards the front of the plane and consider your words. 

Part of me believes that it's like everything you say after we share a moment together: that we needed some relief from tension. 

But, the rest of me, hopes that you knew I was thinking about you earlier, and this was your way of telling me you understand that I'm in love with you.   
  


* * *

Owari 


End file.
